


And Light Shines In Darkness

by Saoirse Mooney (achuislemochroi)



Series: Narniafic [18]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Angst, Introspection, M/M, Melancholy, Metaphor, POV Edmund Pevensie, Pining, Setting: Post-Dawn Treader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9523823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achuislemochroi/pseuds/Saoirse%20Mooney
Summary: You’d like to think you’re getting over Caspian.  But the reality is you’re nowhere near that point, and youknowit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set post- _Voyage of the Dawn Treader_ in the months immediately following the Pevensies’ (and Eustace’s) return from Narnia, this deals with Edmund’s inability to forget Caspian, or their relationship, and the pain of having to transition back into a life without him.  My headcanon for the Pevensies has them as probably at least High Church, although probably _not_ Roman Catholic.  Inspirations for this piece include the Feast of [All Souls](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_Souls%27_Day), a specific [XKCD cartoon](http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/light.jpg), and the [Third Collect for Evensong](https://www.churchofengland.org/prayer-worship/worship/book-of-common-prayer/the-order-for-evening-prayer.aspx); the quote at the beginning is from the song _Reach Haven Postcard_ by Dan Fogelburg.  The title is amended from John 1:5 in the Jerusalem Bible.  As always, any characters you recognise here belong to C. S. Lewis.

_And a lamp in the window_  
_That shines out to sea_  
_And I wish so much tonight_  
_That you were here with me_

You’re not entirely sure how you’ve found yourself in here, in this sacred place, and you’re just thinking about how you will turn around and go back the way you came when you spot them.  Perhaps this is the reason your subconscious has brought you here of all places on the day of the Dead.  For, in front of you, are hundreds upon hundreds of candles.  A carpet of flickering light, winking against the darkness in memory of those who are gone.

_Like Caspian._

It’s not the first time you’ve been in a church, obviously, but it’s the first time you’ve done it off your own bat since you lost Caspian; Aunt Augusta and Uncle Harold don’t care for religion, and you’re minded to think the attendance at Chapel forced on you at school doesn’t count.  Thinking of Caspian makes you wonder (again, not for the first time) whether this will ever stop hurting.  He isn’t dead; far from it.  But given where he is, and where you are, he _might as well be_ as far as you’re concerned.

You think you’re getting over him (or you’re telling yourself as much, at least), but each time you see anyone or anything that reminds you of him (Eustace; Lucy; the list is long) the pain is fresh sandpaper on red-raw skin.  Yes, you’d like to believe you’re getting over Caspian. But the reality is you’re nowhere near that point, and you _know_ it.

You don’t intend to go any nearer the candles than you already are, but something about them draws you closer anyway.  You could liken Caspian to a candle if you really tried; something like a lantern lit against the darkness, and you stop dead for a moment as yet another memory crashes over you.  Caspian again, of course.   _Some lights never do quite go out_.  You hope, with everything in you, Caspian will be one of them.

You almost wish you could stop yourself from thinking of him so much.  Sometimes, of late, you’ve caught yourself wondering if he’s having as bad a time of it as you are.  Part of you almost hopes he _is_ ; why should you be the only one suffering, when you know he’s as in love with you as you are with him?  You feel guilty about thinking about things this way, but it doesn’t mean you can make yourself stop.

When you wonder if he’s suffering, the thought he might be sticks itself on an infernal treadmill inside your brain.  Then you remember the Star, and you remember the way Caspian had looked at her (although he swore to you afterwards you were the only one who held his heart); you feel sick to your stomach.  You need to find a way of dealing with the fact you’ll never see him again, and soon, because you’re failing miserably at it so far.

‘I miss you,’ you say under your breath.  ‘I miss you so much.  I didn’t know it would hurt like this.’

You remember a story you’d once read in a book, of how sailors’ wives would put a lamp in the window of their homes for those forced to be away from home earning their living on the sea.  A homing beacon, a light to bring them back where they belonged.  You’ve been forced away from home; you could do worse than to find yourself a light to lighten the darkness of the long journey back.

You believe you’ve not seen the last of Narnia (you _have to_ ; you need to believe Aslan was wrong to say you’ll never return, because the alternative is too painful to contemplate), and because it makes the pain more bearable, you let yourself believe you’ll maybe even get to see Caspian again.  You’re holding tight to that thought, your own light against a darkness that has swallowed you so easily.

You drop a penny in the slot and pick up a candle; your hands shake a little as you light it from another and place it amongst the carpet of tiny, pin-prick lights, prayers to a God you have never been sure you can believe in.  You stand there for a moment breathing Caspian’s name (as much plea as benediction), noticing how the light around you is never quite subsumed by the darkness surrounding it.

_Don’t forget me, us, Caspian; whatever else happens, don’t forget._

You leave the church soon after with your mind lost in thoughts of Caspian and, although nothing has changed, you feel an odd sense of comfort as you depart which makes you wonder whether perhaps, despite everything, things might just turn out all right in the end.


End file.
